First Times
by MmeDeMerteuil
Summary: She hasn't been on the run for as long as she can remember, but it's pretty damn close. And it's not just the law she's escaping from. A sort of background, plus some present day events, for Joie, the same Dragonborn from Bad Poetry and An Aftermath. Rated M for death, a little gore, sexual topics, and mentions of incest.


It's autumn, and the warm light that rushes in from the windows coats everything with thick orange hues. She is five years old; dainty and shy, silent and pretty, like one of those dolls he likes to fill her room with. It's the first time she takes a step into the master bedroom, and the sight intimidates her. Everything looks big, dark, cold. She is certain the wardrobe is planning to swallow her, and gingerly steps away from it, trying to remain under his gaze, so that it won't get a chance to come alive and eat her.

"Come here, little dove. It's about time you meet your mother", he says, and despite the calm and lack of inflexion in his tone she knows it's an order. She follows him to the alcove, right in front of the double bed, where candles are lit. An eight-pointed star surrounds a red rock, sitting high above a stone pedestal, and above it, surrounded by thick curtains, towers a small portrait, framed in silver.

She's beautiful.

"She looks so much like you, Sabine." She shifts uncomfortably, trying to escape from the hand that firmly clutches her shoulder, hands twisting into each other as if digging to find a way out. Maybe it's because she realizes that those words aren't meant for her to hear. Maybe she remembers the wardrobe, looming grimly behind her back. The little girl looks away, but her eyes find a tall mirror, and she can't help but wonder whether he's right.

The hair, soft and dark, is there. The nose, the pale skin. The odd, violet eyes, though, are definitely his. He notices her lack of attention, and he grabs her other shoulder, too, kneeling behind her to speak directly in her ear. As if he could reach that woman through her. "What do I do with… those other two? They're a disgrace. If only you were here, you would know how to keep them in their place. But she's all that's left, now. You…" His tone changes somewhat, and she turns, knowing he's speaking to her, now. "You'll be a good girl, won't you? Help me keep the little scoundrels at bay. Like your mother would."

She nods, smiling nervously. Now that his attention is back to her, she feels stronger. Protected. Certainly the hungry wardrobe won't eat her, it's too scared of him. But there's a tightness in their actions that reminds her of the dolls. She makes them move, and they do, looking lovely and happy. The real meaning of that resemblance escapes her youthful mind.

"She'd be so proud of you, little dove. My Joie." Meetings like those soon become a ritual of sorts. Eventually, she stops being afraid of the tall furniture. But she never stops feeling like an intruder.

* * *

She knew it was a bad idea to stay silent and pretend to sleep, and yet she did nothing to stop them. Standing in the hall, she tries to make it seem like she's looking at the floor, but now and then she looks up, to steal glances from her siblings.

They're glaring angrily as he gives them the belt, and they scare her a little.

Saul is shorter, only a little older than her, red haired and gaunt. He cries, and that makes him ashamed, and even more furious. Girard is tall, broad, dark, and he already looks like an adult to her. He takes it silently, but it's clear he's in pain. She knows that sneaking outside in the night is a very bad thing to do, and that it must mean they'll get punished with far more than that. Maybe they'll even end up in jail. At least father says so. Joie doesn't know if it's true, but she tries not to look scared anyway.

When it's over, she thinks she can go crawl back to the library, pretend nothing happened, and hope the guards won't come to take her siblings away. Instead father walks up to her, and touches her shoulder, telling her to go upstairs.

She still doesn't like it upstairs. She doesn't like to be where mother stares at her.

There, he sits on the bed, and makes her stand before him. He looks disappointed as he scolds her, explaining to her that he trusts her, that he expects her to help him discipline her siblings. That she has a duty to teach them how to be good kids. She thinks it's ridiculous that he expects her to do that, she's only seven years old after all, and they are older than she is, would never listen, but she remains silent. Then, he serenely demands that she pulls up her skirt, turn around and bend over.

He's always calm and polite, but she's learnt to watch out for the slight twitch in his jaw. It's the first time he does something like that to her, the belt has always been her brothers' punishment, and yet there's no twitch. No signs of anger. Just disappointment. It hurts, and she's not used to the pain, but at the first whimper he asks her to stay quiet. So she does.

When it's over, he brushes away her tears, and tells her to go back downstairs. She nods, not trusting herself not to start sobbing again if she speaks. Then, slowly, she walks down the stairs. It's surprisingly easy to pretend nothing happened. All she has to do is to think about her dolls, or the stories she reads in the library. Maybe she'll read about the black arrow again. And pretend she doesn't see her brothers glaring at her, as if it was her fault they were caught. As if it was her fault things are that way.

* * *

They're alone at home. Girard has gone outside. He says someone's offered him a job; of course, he doesn't say so in front of her, but she hears it anyways, and thinks that it sounds oddly shady. During the day, when father is outside to work, the boys keep her at a distance, always believing she must be the one to tell him of their misdeeds. It's not true, but she still wants to know. This is why she sneaks around.

Saul has approached her. Usually, this means he's going to pull some prank on her, or just pull her hair. It's clear that he doesn't like her. Girard doesn't either, but at least he prefers to ignore her, and he's even nice on occasion. Saul is angry and defiant, and when he hates something he does all he can to show it. This time, he grabs her doll, throws it out of the window, and shoves her on the ground.

A few seconds of pain and taunts later she is crawling on the floor, trying to get away from him, and then all of a sudden she stands up and runs, all the way up the staircase, with him chasing after her and yelling to come back, calling her a coward. She grabs something, turns around, and takes a second to look at him approaching before throwing.

The wooden horse hits him straight in the forehead, and he stops, growing silent all of a sudden. He brings up a hand, to touch where it hurts. He's bleeding. She cringes. It's the first time something like that ever happens. They glance at each other, equally surprised.

He never hits her again after that.

* * *

It started getting to her head after the first glass. At the third one, she is doing all she can not to wake everyone up with her chuckling. Girard laughs along, gesturing her to keep quiet. He's been paid well this time, and to celebrate, he's risked bringing a bottle of expensive Cyrodilic Brandy home. Saul has refused to share it with them, preferring to hide back in his room and study some more maps. He wants to travel Tamriel, one day. Joie, instead, has decided to stay, already giggly even before taking a sip. It's her first, and it's better than she imagined.

In the previous years, things have changed a little. Their brother still hasn't warmed up to her, but the eldest and Joie have found some sort of common ground to operate in. She's less shy, now. The books have given her words, and the words give her confidence. He likes that. Teaches her things about opening locks, handling money, and having fun.

She leans back against her sibling's chest, and he slips an arm around her waist as he takes a long sip directly from the bottle. She wants to do the same, and she fidgets in his lap. There's something odd, but not unpleasant, about that situation. He lifts the bottle away from her grasp, grinning at her squirming as he keeps her down.

"Don't be impatient. Shh. Stop that…" He finally allows her to grab the brandy, and she holds it to her chest, playfully, but by now she's forgotten about drinking. He sighs, and ruffles her hair, and she puts down the bottle, pushing him back on the cushions and resting over him. It feels nice, warm. She wonders if all boys feel like this, or just him.

Girard caresses her hair, and she looks up at him, a playful smirk upon her lips, but he just remains there, and doesn't speak. So she slides up upon him, propping herself on her elbows so that her face is right above his. He's surprised, but amused. His eyes are watery, and his cheeks are flushed. Just like hers. He looks a lot like father, but the stern tension isn't there; he's all warmth and resolve. She likes that.

At first, it's some kind of game, a tiny experiment of her own. She wants to see his reaction, and maybe she really wants to see how it feels like. She presses her lips upon his, and shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to do. That was a bad idea, she realizes; she pulls back, already blushing, but he's got an arm around her waist, another on the back of her neck, and he's staring at her, a brow arched.

"What was _that_?"

"… a kiss?"

"That's not how you kiss."

She snorts, and he chuckles. Then he shows her. It's still a little awkward, but she starts getting the hang of it pretty soon, her tongue playing around with his as an odd, pleasant sensation fills her belly. She feels something shifting under her, and instinctively she rubs down on him, earning a groan. When his hand finds her butt, she pulls away from the kiss briskly, and they start chuckling again. And then she decides she wants to try again.

It gets even more awkward after that, but they seem adamant to continue their explorations. It's just kisses and touching, but somehow it makes Joie feel all hot and happy, and their hands are in each other's pants by the time Girard finally has a moment of clarity, and pushes her roughly away, panting and shivering.

"We can never speak of this again."

She's disappointed, but the morning after she completely agrees. They do as he said, never mention it; still, for a while after that, the awkwardness makes them look away whenever their eyes meet.

* * *

She looks out of the window, a feeling of cold surging through her and leaving her breathless. Everything is grey. She wonders whether it's a coincidence that it's raining during such a tragic moment; it happens in so many books. Someone dies, and during the final rites the heroes gather under the falling rain, or hear its maddening sound from outside, as if the gods were weeping along with them.

She's pretty sure very few gods would weep for the loss of a man like her father. A part of her mind fights that thought strenuously; he's the one who gave her life, the one who raised her, nobody is supposed to speak that way about him. She can't imagine how life without him could be. The other, the rational one, the one that's growing too quickly, stares idly at the husk of a man lying on the bed and shrugs. He was not a good man.

Once realization strikes her, though, she breaks into sudden tears, shaking as her arms hug her own figure, and is not surprised that her siblings are not rushing to comfort her, and stand in silence, no great sorrow hiding in their eyes. The adults inside the room, though, definitely are. They don't know.

She thought she was prepared for this event. All of those years reading about the lives and deaths of strangers had made it clear to her that, no matter how heroic or important, all, sooner or later, must die. Still, only a few days ago their father was standing and vigilant, and now he is there, looking as though he's been dead for days, sunken cheeks and eyes, the skin too tight over a skull too big. Ashen, dried up. A healer might've saved him, maybe, had they been called in time, but it only took him two days and a night to fall to that illness.

They were all certain he'd survive, until he stopped talking.

At that sight, she ran to the nearest temple, and paid with a pearl bracelet he'd given to her a few months before, one of those hundreds of empty gifts she was certain she wouldn't miss. Her brothers were more practical-minded; they hurried to call a lawman and witnesses, a couple family friends. No relatives; the few they still have live far and wouldn't even recognize them. Now she is back, dripping and shaken, and wonders whether a few minutes would've made any difference.

She keeps sobbing loudly as the priestess of Kynareth sighs, extending her hands over his dead form, and recites a formula that would be meaningful and filled with hope had it not been pronounced a thousand times before. Then, she walks up to Joie, gives her a gentle hug, and the bracelet back.

"I'll send over the priests of Arkay in a few hours, for the final rites. Feel free to come to the temple should you need anything, child. We'll welcome you with open arms."

She just nods, biting down another sob, her back convulsing from the shaking. Then sits down, as the crowd of men and boys start discussing something, at first with respect, muttered words and grave looks as they still gather around the corpse. The voices get louder and more vehement once they walk out of the room. They speak of money, debt, and of how he left behind three helpless kids, two of whom were born from a previous marriage and might have relatives willing to support them somewhere. They talk about how all those debts could be repaid. Selling the house, the jewelry; some offer jobs. Some offer to house them in exchange for services.

Those words would alarm her, if she wasn't busy staring wide eyed at her father's lifeless body. A thought forms in her head, frighteningly concrete, for the very first time. He was mortal, and now he no longer is. She is mortal, too. Girard, Saul, the nice baker who lives across the street, all of them are mortal.

She swallows, but the anguish sticks to her throat.

* * *

It's still raining when they stop to rest, a leather tent and the covered carriage their only protection from the icy water. It's been raining nonstop for the last few days. Joie's been awfully distant, and oddly collected, even as she watched the buyers paying for the nice paintings that once cluttered the hallway's walls. Girard made a weird face when she stated that she didn't need any of the dolls, or the books, that they could be sold to cover up for the debt. She read them all, anyway. They're in her head.

She isn't sure she wants to keep any of those other things, now that their former life is over.

Her siblings have decided not to take any of the job offers. They have some friends in the capital, they say. Those friends have found their fortune, and might help them gather some contacts, whatever that means. They spent most of the little cash they had left for a big carriage and horses, and a few necessities to survive on the road; then, they departed, keeping a few coins aside for bribes and food. Saul even asked her if she was sure she was planning to go with them. They would lead a dangerous life, and not a comfortable one. She just shrugged and nodded.

It doesn't matter much where you start from. It's how you do that, and whether you keep going. Where did she read that one?

She finds it hard to drift to sleep, with the cold and continuous sounds, and the threat of bandits or monsters on the road. It's the first time she sleeps outdoors; it's a bit scary, but mostly uncomfortable, and the sentence keeps echoing in her head as she realizes she just can't remember where it comes from. After a long, long while, she succumbs to exhaustion. Her dreams are confused, and all she can remember the morning after is a sense of loss and regret. She shakes it off.

* * *

It's been a few years since they started their travels. Saul and Girard have started a small business, selling and buying illegal goods, acting as fences for some _friends_ of theirs. Mostly, though, for now they just carry cheap Skooma, less refined than the one the Khajit caravans do, and give it out at an unfair price to the poor bastards who can't get rid of the addiction.

At first she felt sorry for them, but now she finds she doesn't care that much anymore.

They don't stand in one place for too long. It's easier to escape the authorities that way. It's a lonely life, and they're forced to stick together, to build a sort of camaraderie. It doesn't mean they never meet any interesting people, actually, quite the opposite. Now and then her brothers even leave for a night or two, to enjoy the company of some wickedly beautiful woman or another.

It's the first time Joie actually goes out of her way to spend time alone with someone, and she's exhilarated. Athal Ienith. Blue skin, dark hair, and vermillion eyes gleaming with roguish sensuality. He's lean and scarred, like many other mer. His voice is like ground stone as he whispers in her ear, and it makes her almost light-headed.

She isn't too surprised when he invites to his room, after a long night speaking of blades and fingers, and how he might teach her to use them better, and how he broke in a hundred different houses and stole a hundred pure hearts. That may be an exaggeration, but the way he tells the stories makes them sound like a tale from a book, and his voice is just _so enthralling_, and so she doesn't mind. She accepts after quickly scanning the room, making sure that her siblings aren't around, and can't spot her walking upstairs.

Suddenly they're inside, and it's no longer just his voice that makes her go weak in the knees; his hands are everywhere, his mouth too, and she mewls in pleasure under him, too excited to worry that he might be put off by her inexperience. Joie feels surprisingly dizzy, despite not having drunk a single drop of wine, in fear it might ruin it all. But she's still new to this, and he notices, and looks a little disappointed for a moment, before he speaks.

"So it appears that I'll have to teach you many things tonight…"

He grins wickedly, and with that she knows it's all in good fun.

Despite everything, it hurts a little. The sensation, though, is drowned in a thousand different brands of pleasure, and soon she's lost track of time, writhing and moaning until he's too tired to go on, chuckling at her seemingly endless energy.

When the morning later she stumbles back to their carriage, walking funny and with dark rings under her eyes, her brothers know at first glance what happened, but don't comment. She doesn't mention anything, either. She's a bit sad she'll probably never meet her first again, but maybe that's what made her choose him over so many others.

As she absently feeds their horses, she tells herself that it's only because it makes him more mysterious, more attractive, but a part of her knows it's much more than that. The anguish is still clinging to her back, but she keeps walking, pretending she doesn't notice.

* * *

She remembers the way Saul has looked at her only a few hours before, stern and serious and almost angry, and she presses her lips against each other, forcing herself not to move an inch. This is important, and she needs to go along with it.

It was surprisingly easy to flirt her way into this man's chambers. A little flattery, some feigned innocence, to give the impression of being a ditzy little girl who just can't wait to be defiled by him. If you're convincing enough, most men will fall for it, so she's been quick to learn these tricks. They _want_ to believe that a pretty young girl would be willing to spend the night with them. So this part is easy.

Just lying there and taking it is easy too. Sometimes she wants to squirm away from him, when he pushes in too deep and hurts her, but she's scared he might take it badly and throw her out, so she feigns a moan, or just stays silent and still. Sometimes it actually feels rather good. She's growing impatient, though. Is it going to take a lot more? When is he going to fall asleep, dammit?

When he finally rests at her side, already snoring after only a couple of seconds, comes the hard part. She knows the stash is in a locked chest, at the bottom of the bed. She's seen it on her way in. She's sure it takes her hours to slip out of his embrace, in fear he might wake up, but in the end she's off the bed, shaky because of the contact of cold air on her sweaty skin.

And maybe she's shivering because she's scared, too.

A crooked hairpin is all it takes to open that lock, it's a fairly simple one even for her, after all, but her hands are trembling, and she's trying not to make any noise as she nervously glances up at him. She risks breaking the pin a couple of times; luckily, a dull click announces her success, and she is quick to stuff the substances in her bag and put her clothes on, hurrying to put as much distance as she can between her and that stranger she just robbed.

He isn't a good person. She saw the blades he carries, and his _trophies_. If he catches her, he'll slice her open without batting an eyelash. But he never realizes what's gone until it's too late, although she doesn't know at the time, and so she's running alone through the dark streets, terrified, until she realizes that she's never felt alive as much as now that her heart beats so hard in her chest she's afraid she might collapse. When she finally reaches her brothers, she witnesses a scene she hasn't expected.

"You're an irresponsible idiot! What's going on inside that thick skull of yours?! How could you even ask such a thing from her?!"

"We're going to get five hundred septims for each one of those vials, you oaf."

"Five hundred septims aren't worth a single hair plucked from her head!"

"What? Are you even listening to yourself?! It's not like you've never done anything like this before. Why won't you let her do it, too? Afraid she might be better than you?"

"If our little sister gets hurt, Saul, I swear I'm going to end you."

"Our _little sister_?! That little bitch is tougher than you'll ever be, Gir. Oh, there she is." He just grins and nods at her as their brother turns around, and then, when she's closer, he bows at her. She can't help a goofy grin from appearing on her lips as she curtsies in response. "So, do I need to congratulate with you, or to start running and pretend I don't know you?"

"I found his stash and emptied it, and he never noticed. Congratulations and a part of the profits are _the least_ I'd expect."

"You insufferable little bitch… you heart-stealer! I love you more than you can imagine!" He's chuckling enthusiastically as he examines the contents of her bag, and she tries her best to ignore the unhappy look Girard is giving her until he finally speaks, arms crossed in front of her chest, trying to disguise a hint of admiration in his voice.

"Well, this time it went well. We're never doing it again, though." Oh, but they do. And they get good at it.

* * *

They don't usually test the stuff. It's not meant to be tested; why would it even matter to them whether the quality is good or not? They're usually far by the time the buyers would have any complaints, and it's no longer their main business anyway. This time, though, the curiosity is almost too much. The woman sitting by her side slips her arm around her waist, encouragingly. She's tall and blond, a Nord beauty, and she smiles in a way that's far too convincing to outright refuse.

"I can't believe you've never tried, sweetheart. Relax. Just give it a taste, I'll even show you the best in my collection. How about that?"

A few glasses of wine later, she's ready to accept, despite a voice in her head telling her that her brothers are going to regret sending her to seal this deal. They never let her have any fun anyway. She shushes the noise of her thoughts, and eyes the unknown substance curiously as she tilts the little vial before opening it.

Quaesto Vil, it's called. It's a thick, lavender colored liquid, and it burns as she keeps it under her tongue, as the woman advises her to do while she strokes her hair. She takes some, too, and then presses forward to kiss her; Joie realizes she's probably slipping some of her dose to her, but she's still sober enough to do the same so that it evens out. The taste is odd. It tastes like brandy, and tangerine, and something else, more exotic, that she can't quite place.

It quickly shows its effect once her head starts spinning and her vision gets blurry, and soon she leans against the woman at her side, nuzzling her neck as she erupts into a giggle fit. The candle on the table has such an odd shape. The shadows forming from it, all shivery and faint, seem like little dancers for their enjoyment, and Griela – that's her name – agrees, points at the flame, tells her to lose herself in it.

It gives off a faint glow. Purple, then orange, then… she can no longer name it, and, after chatting idly for a short while, Griela leans again into her and whispers in her ear, tells her _things_. Things that open her mind, make her feel as though she's expanding, filling the room. They start touching each other, and for a while she feels like they're not there. They're speaking from afar, from another world, as they watch themselves fuck each other until they can no longer go on.

For a while she is sure they are gods. She's sure that they are one with everything, and everything is them, and everything is fragmented in a wonderful hurricane of lights and colors. She isn't sure this body can convey such a thing in mortal language, but she tries. The blonde nods, smiles. She understands. They hold each other, worship each other, and then she feels like she's falling in a dark pit and being engulfed by gentle shadowy hands. Time no longer matters.

When she wakes up, her head is still spinning and the lights still leave a trail in their wake, but it's no longer pleasant and beautiful. Most of the things that made her feel like her mind had been introduced to a new world of feeling sound like _stupid gibberish_, and she feels like she's going to puke. Griela is still naked on the sofa, a satisfied smile on her lips as she kisses her forehead, telling her, her voice as soft as silk, that they can conclude the deal there, but that if she ever wants some more of the _good_ stuff she should come back.

"I'll be waiting, sweetheart. You have such lovely hands, has anyone ever told you that?"

She actually considers the thought as she wobbles back to the tavern where her brothers wait impatiently, worried and angry, but when Girard shakes her and slaps her – lightly, but still hard enough to make her want to kneel on the ground and empty her guts, ignoring the way Saul keeps trying to get him to calm down and let her go, yelling at her that she's an idiot and she should never, ever try anything before the deal is over and she's back to them, and _what if they rob her, what if they do worse, what if she dies_… she decides it's best if that never happens again.

Next time she's going to try the drugs she intends to be alone.

* * *

They lead a dangerous life. She always knew this, but sometimes she almost forgets, the days go by and everything seems to easy… the cash flows in and out, deals and larceny mark its passing, and yet they never stop to put money aside. They never even speak about settling down somewhere. Maybe she's not the only one who carries those scary thoughts in the back of her head, those that make her want to keep running, to keep travelling, never forming any bonds. Never actually owning something, loving something. Maybe her brothers feel the same.

She does not risk mentioning it, though. She's scared saying it out loud might make it feel more real. Nowadays, she even refrains from thinking about it most of the time.

It's getting darker, and she's chopping firewood. She is alone, while she waits for her siblings to come back from the nearby town and eat dinner. They won't stop there for the night, last time they did they acted sloppy, and while the authorities don't remember their faces the innkeeper certainly does. She doesn't expect trouble to come her way, not now. The sound of the axe hitting the wooden block is comforting, rhythmic. The footsteps on the grass go unnoticed.

When she turns to see the three figures, weapons drawn as they approach the wagon, they're already too close. They taunt, proceed towards her, start putting their hands in their bags, laugh as they comment on how easy a target a lone girl with a carriage is. She takes a few hesitant steps towards them, pathetically trying to intimidate them as she brandishes her axe. They roar with laughter until she gets one step too close, then one attacks, a bored look on his face.

It's not a deadly strike, one which she dodges easily, but soon the true intent of this stranger is clear; he grabs her by the left arm while she's still unbalanced, pulls her to him, threatens her; _he'll kill her after they're done with her if she doesn't stop moving_. She tenses, her right arm moves on its own, and suddenly the axe is now buried in the bandit's skull, and she gasps in horror as she places her other hand on the wooden grip and kicks him away, to pull it free from his body, eyes drawn to the ugly gash she opened on his head. The other two scream and growl and rush to attack her, and she is forced to shake herself from her dazed state, to start swinging and backing away, still wondering what in Oblivion came over her. It could've been nice and easy, and they're going to kill her now.

More importantly,_ she killed a man_.

That never happened before. She might be a thief, and a horrible person, but this is different. _She killed a man_. They're furious and shocked that a stupid girl would actually dare to attack them, almost as much as she is, and now they don't hold back, they aim to her head, her heart, they aim to kill. She gets sliced in a couple places, but can barely feel the pain. _She killed a man_. A bold grin grows on her lips, she stops backing away, and starts pressing forward instead. It's strange, how easy this comes to her. She's sparred with her brothers before, and even fought strangers a couple times, but never like this. She's never tasted death on the end of her weapon. It's intoxicating, and she amusedly wonders whether this makes her worse than the men who are fighting her now. _She killed a man_. The axe vibrates against the second bandit's hip with a dull thud, the vibration making her grit her teeth as her grin widens, and she pulls it back only long enough to strike again, changing the angle so that it lands obliquely on his exposed neck instead, nearly severing the head from the shoulders.

Only one is left.

Her heart is thumping in her chest.

She might die, and this makes her feel more alive than any of the silly chases and robberies, more than the Skooma and the wine, and almost more than the sex does. The remaining one is tougher and bigger, and when his blade finds the grip of her makeshift weapon it shatters, leaving her with nothing but a wooden stick. He kicks her in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her and causing her to fall on her bottom, close to one of the corpses. She can't dodge the next blow; he might be too far to cut deep now, but he can reach her face, and before she knows it her vision is filled with blood, and she's crawling away, arms extended to reach something, anything to defend herself.

She isn't sure about how she manages to act so quickly, but she is now standing, running for a short distance before she turns back to her attacker, a bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other, courtesy of bandit number two. He looks absolutely astonished as the arrow goes straight through his eye, and she collapses in a trembling mess on the ground, the blood pumping so fast in her veins that a ringing sound fills her ears, making her oblivious to the voice of a lone Khajit who, conveniently enough, has only managed reach her side now that the skirmish is over. She barely notices him at first, too dazed to understand him until she quiets down and thanks him, a little, nervous smile on her lips. Does she look like a victim to him? Did he notice how beastly she acted while she fought, does he think it's justified? Does he even care for anything but the loot he can get from the corpses? His knowing grin, which shows a little more fangs that it's supposed to, tells her all she needs to know.

She was lucky not to lose her eyes. Had he struck less than half an inch above, she would be blind. But then again, she'd probably be dead, too, so it doesn't matter. "This will leave an interesting scar", jokes the Khajit as he helps her apply some herbs to stop the bleeding, noticing the worried look on her face as she fingers the jagged cut that goes from one cheekbone to the other.

She makes a little grimace, then shrugs. "Will warpaint cover it? All of these Nords are wearing it anyway."

"Maybe", he purrs, as he grabs a coin pouch from one of the dead bandits' belt and starts walking away. Joie looks down at the bow she still has on her lap. She likes it, more than the axe. It reminds her of a story she read long ago, when she was still a child.

* * *

Years have passed since the day she got the scar that now mars her face, cutting horizontally across her nose and cheeks. At first she was ashamed by it, tried to cover it with warpaint; ironically, now that she's okay with it, its presence no longer any different than that of a birthmark or laugh lines, that deep purple line that was meant to cover it is as much a part of her as everything else. Saul used to mock her about it, trying to get her to find the humor in it, but now that she doesn't need it anymore he's stopped. Now he just tells her it makes her look tough.

She hopes he's right as she scans the area around her, back to back with him, her whole body as tense as her bow's string. They've been surrounded. They know that Girard is somewhere behind them, fighting – he was always the strongest one, the one they relied on when things got tough. Now she aches to go look for him and help him, but she can do nothing but keep unloading her arrows upon the savage men and women who are attacking them, while her brother, his back pressed against hers, does his best at using his magic to hold them at a distance. They're not being very effective. These are Forsworn, the folks that plague the western side of Skyrim and ravage the travelers that happen upon them, and they're strong and resilient. Until now, they've always managed to avoid them when they passed through this country.

This time, though, they might've strayed a little more south than they were supposed to.

She tries not to think about anything but arrows and targets. Arrows and targets and how to make one hit the other. It's easy; that way she feels as if the anguish, the fear, is far behind her. But a mage gets too close, sparks flying from her hands, and Joie is forced to run away and leave Saul behind to keep the enemies at an acceptable distance. The fight turns desperate. There are screams from behind her back, making her shiver, but she knows well that she can't help them if she can't help herself, and she's barely managing to hold them off. Still, there's fewer. They might still make it. There's fewer, and fewer, and maybe now she can turn around and…

She doesn't expect to be snuck upon. Before she can turn around to give her brothers assistance, something is grasping at her neck, as sudden as it is forceful, and she is swept off her feet and dragged behind. Her hands hurry to her throat, where she finds a chain; someone is pulling onto it, trying to choke her, and as much as she struggles she can't get free.

It takes a short while for the feeling of weakness to set in. Fighting back suddenly doesn't seem possible anymore. Sounds can barely reach her, her vision is hazy, and for a moment a sort of resignation sets in. What kind of afterlife could be awaiting the likes of her? She gives a last tug, more annoyed than she is scared, before she feels herself slipping. They might be three wretched smugglers, but they sure gave them a hard time. They should feel proud.

The surprise she feels at how little it hurts is the last thing she can remember when she finally opens her eyes again. Shining bright above her is the same sun she closed her eyes to. Her head is spinning, her neck hurts, her skin feels oddly cold to the touch, and she's pretty sure someone has stabbed her in the gut for good measure. But a dark skinned woman wearing a tunic is sitting by her side, using restoration magic on her, and forces her up on her feet, even if she doesn't want to do that just yet. She knows what's awaiting her.

For a while, all Joie can do is hang silently from the stranger's shoulder and stare at the grass, a dull ringing in her ears and a feeling of nausea overwhelming her. Then, when she forces herself to look around, she finds exactly what she feared to see.

There are no survivors. More than a dozen Forsworn are scattered across the field, but none of them moving. The carriage lays abandoned sideways on the ground, and she can see one horse's carcass, while the other probably escaped.

They're both there. The ones she seeks.

Girard had it easy. There's a whole section of his skull that's missing. She isn't sure she can identify the weapon responsible for the hit that crushed his head and muted his thoughts. He doesn't seem angry or scared, but he's unsettlingly resigned. Closer to her, is Saul. Part of his body is charred and black, and the rest still bleeds, ravaged by a lightning spell. It's a slow, painful death, but he met it standing; he's still propped up on a stone, his furious grimace barely visible. She feels like she might lose consciousness again.

And yet she stares. All the gruesome details of their corpses fill her widened eyes, but there's a wall between her and that part of her that wants to burst out crying and run up to her dear siblings. The woman by her side asks her how she feels, and she can just croak a sarcastic '_alive_'. She notices the amulet of Stendarr on her chest. She knows what she is, knows that she's probably saved her life, but can't bring herself to thank her before she leaves, heading north.

Without that woman, there wouldn't be corpses to mourn. Without that woman, she would be dead, eaten, and who knows what else. But what use is mourning? Does she even deserve to outlive them? She wanders around and observes the massacre for a while before finally starting to drag the bodies of her brothers to the carriage, pull it until it stands, and then push them over it. She holds them for a while more before she pulls away, starts digging through their bags. All she takes for herself is her bow and arrows, and the coins they were carrying, and then, feeling oddly numb and detached, she slowly pours liquor all over and makes a pyre out of the wagon. It's all she can do, now.

Sit, and stare at the fire until it consumes everything. Sit, and refuse to let the tears come to her eyes. Sit, and listen to that voice she knows well, in her mind. Telling her that all men die eventually. That it's not that big a deal. That it was only a matter of time. She wonders why she isn't there with them, now, burning until there's nothing left, but realizes it's a stupid thing to think about. Then thinks she could've saved something more. Something to remember them by. But no, what use would that be? It would only serve to remind her of a time when she could slip into Girard's sleeping bag on cold nights, when the nightmares from her childhood seem more real, when the beast called fear seems like it can't be outrun any longer, and he wouldn't ask a thing, just hold her. It would only serve to remind her of a time when she could sit by Saul's side while he drives the carriage, and he would start telling her things he's read about the places they see, or the constellations in the sky, to keep them both entertained. She isn't sure she wants to remember. It's so much easier to start anew. It's not like she ever _owned_ them, and they're gone now anyway.

Then a thought crosses her mind, and causes a surge of panic to awaken her from her numbed down state.

She's never been alone before. Not like this, at least. Even knowing they would leave her eventually didn't give her the same hollow sensation of anguish that now makes her stand and back away from the already charred remains of her past. The young woman takes one last look at the horror before her. Then she starts running.

There's a city, south from here. She can get there easily if she can find the dwarven ruins Saul has told her about last time they came around here. She's alone, so hopefully she will manage to remain unnoticed.

She'll decide what to do later. _It doesn't matter where you start from, it's how you do that, and whether you keep going,_ are the words that she keeps chanting in her mind, and soon some sort of calm is taking over. It's the second time she starts over by running away. She's pretty sure she can keep it up.

* * *

They never had many contacts in Skyrim, not reliable ones at least, but in Riften used to live a man who might give her a _job_, maybe. It took way too much to remember his name or location, but it's enough to start. Continuing life as a criminal beats whoring herself out or, gods forbid it, helping out at a farm. Now that she's there, though, she realizes that the long, adventurous trek has been for nothing. She's risked dying exactly four times, in spectacularly creative ways, only to find that Torvan died several months ago. She gets a few glares from the innkeeper, too, even just for asking such a question. Apparently, he was affiliated with some sort of Thieves Guild, there. _What a surprise, really_.

She juggles several possibilities as she wanders aimlessly around the tiny marketplace, realizing in the back of her mind that it's a very pretty city. Not too clean, but then again, very few cities are. It has a charm of its own. When the redheaded Nord notices her and starts approaching her, she's weighting two equally unattractive prospects. Waste her remaining coins to drag herself all the way to Markarth and ask to be taken in as a priestess of Dibella? That's the only religion she could ever _pretend_ to follow, really. Or maybe she should go see if any of the shopkeepers need a helper. Start living an honest life. That would be a change.

"Running a little light in the pockets, lass?"

She turns around to face him, a look on her face that's between annoyance and curiosity. She isn't too impressed at first, but she lets herself get dragged in his scheme. She is not a stranger to thievery, and it's not too far from what she was planning when she decided to come here. It's only later, after a few days _running errands_ for him in the city, that Joie realizes there's something quite unusual about the way she feels around this man.

She's a little too eager to please him. A little too eager to be around him. At first she tells herself she just wants to impress her superior, but she finds that she doesn't feel the same way around the other prominent members of the guild. It's unsettling how much of an influence this Brynjolf has on her. His mere presence is sometimes enough to change a bad day into an acceptable one. A single compliment of his causes her to smile for hours. The day she finds herself staring at him from across the room as she nurses a tankard of mead, and finds that he returns the look with the same intensity, only to smile at her afterwards, is the day she feels scared again.

It's an ugly feeling, of ache and longing, that awakens the hungry beast imprisoned in the back of her mind. The fear struggles against its chains now, and a mocking voice reprimands her. She's growing too attached to him. It's dangerous and stupid. She should know better by now, it will only make her suffer more when the inevitable happens. Being friendly is one thing, being sorry someone's gone is one thing, but affection is something else entirely. Affection is dangerous. Affection can destroy her.

These thoughts make her terrified. These are things she rarely ever allows herself to contemplate. How all things end, how all things eventually leave this world. That he matters enough to her that she has to go dig through such horrible considerations is simply astounding.

She finishes her business as quickly as she can, and hurries up to the Jarl's palace. There's a bounty out for some bandits, and she's confident that she can take them out on her own by now. Maybe it will keep her mind away from the way he makes her feel when he calls her lass – oh, it's not even just that she wants him to push her over a table and take her hard and fast, that wouldn't even worry her. No, she wants him to kiss her and look at her in the eyes as he holds her. That's something a quick, mindless fuck won't fix.

For the first time ever, she is positive just getting it out of her system wouldn't do her any good.

* * *

The Ragged Flagon is a surprisingly quiet place, if you don't want it to be anything else. Joie finds she likes both sides of it – the silent, unwelcoming one helps her relax after a long day, the somewhat louder, warmer one gives her the energy to keep going. Any way she takes it, it's never dull or unpleasant. This evening, she needs the silence, so she sticks to the counter.

A conversation between Rune and Tonilia attracts her attention, so she glances back, without leaving her seat. He's selling to her some things he stole from a house in Windhelm, mostly art pieces and jewelry. Some of it is quite pretty. She's about to shrug, mentally congratulate him for the good finds and newly found wealth, and turn back, when something draws her eye.

A small portrait he's been keeping aside for a while. It's framed in silver, dark colors clashing against the pale flesh tones. As if sleepwalking, she approaches them, tankard still in her hand as she rests her weight on the left hip, trying to look as neutral as possible. "_Mind if I take a look_", comes as a husky mutter as she lightly touches his arm with the tankard, and he smiles and lets her grab the painting. She almost forgets how to breathe for a moment.

"That does look a lot like you, doesn't it?" To him, it's probably no more than a joke, but to her, it's crushing. She nods absently, lets a finger slide across the frame, which is now in rather bad conditions. The painting, though, is still perfect. She still smiles silently from the canvas, a promise of delight in her lips, a cunning twinkle in her warm, dark eyes. That's all she ever knew of her, that portrait that only the instrument of a lover could bring to life. That moment of intimacy caught forever under the strokes of a skilled hand.

"Sure it does. That's my mother."

The look of shock on his face is almost priceless. Tonilia leans over, looks at the painting with interest as Joie hands it back to her _brother in crime_, trying to ignore the fact that her heartbeat has quickened and her hands are shivering. The past… she left it behind, it's not supposed to come back to haunt her now that she's found some measure of balance. Still, she keeps up the façade, holds the smile on her face as she allows Rune to recover from the surprise.

"Are you serious? You said you weren't from around here…"

"We sold it when we left our home, in Camlorn. To pay some debts. It's odd that it would find its way here, isn't it?"

He just nods, at a loss for words, and Tonilia quickly finishes her examination, shrugging. "It's pretty. Could be worth… maybe one hundred fifty septims. No more than that, though. It doesn't have the signature of any known artisans."

"Oh, no, wait, I can't sell this! You should keep it, Joie. Since it's… you know. Your family." She blinks, surprised, and it's her turn to be left speechless. A part of her doesn't want that weight to be thrust back on her chest, those eyes to be following her around again. Still, she is touched by this gesture. Especially knowing that he doesn't know a thing about his own family.

"I don't know, Rune… I mean, it's yours now that you've stolen it, isn't it? Or… I should pay you at least."

"I insist. You should keep it."

She gives in. The portrait now rests in her chest, by her bed, and maybe one day it will be hanging from a wall in her house – once she owns one. It's the first time she ever holds onto a heirloom. The first mark of her past she chooses to carry willingly. It's heavy, but deep inside she almost feels… grateful for the weight. Maybe, in time, she'll be able to give it a different meaning, too.

She wonders if she's happy to be reunited with her daughter, too.

* * *

When she approaches him, she's almost startled to see him smiling openly at her and touch her cheek. She isn't sure she'll ever get used to the fact that they have.. _a thing_. Damn her, even in her thoughts she finds it hard to say it out loud.

"You look cheerful, lass."

She shrugs, trying to play it down, though she's clearly smiling to herself. It's one of those rare times they manage to find each other while alone, walking through the streets of Riften as they approach the Ragged Flagon, but they're trying to make them more common. She walks by his side, measuring her steps to match his stride. For a while, they are silent, until they open the door leading to the Ratway.

"Here, keep this." She throws him a small, shiny thing, and, much to her amusement, he's unsurprisingly quick to grab it, though he's looking a bit staggered. He widens his eyes, then frowns, then smile cautiously at her.

"It's a ring…?"

"I made it. It's probably not very well done, but it's the first time I ever _make_ something, so… I think it's not a bad start. I like rubies. I'd like you to have it, you know... It is, well, too big for me anyway." The look on his face turns even more puzzled, and she bursts out laughing, shakes her head. "Look, you're the one who told me I have to actually start _building_ something. Don't blame me for taking that literally!"

His laughter is always a pleasant sound. As they walk around the corridors, he pulls her closer, and neither the smell nor the darkness matter anymore. "For a moment there I thought you were trying to propose to me the Breton way", he mutters, lips pressed against the top of her head, and she giggles at his words, shaking her head. _Proposing_. That does sound like a worrying thought. "It's not exactly what I meant, but I'll treasure this, lass. I mean it", he mutters, while she pulls back to look at him in the eyes, noticeably more relaxed than she usually is.

"I don't care if this is going to keep being a great day or not. Right now it is, and I'm going to enjoy it thoroughly." A bit of the nervousness returns as she says so. A part of her is still scared she might regret saying such a thing, but she keeps her voice high, and by the time she's done speaking, she truly believes what she says. He gives her shoulder another gentle squeeze, clearly having noticed the tone of her voice.

"_That's_ exactly what I meant. You and me both, Joie." They waste a little more time there. It's a good day.


End file.
